


Eat Not The Heart

by waferkya



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:02:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waferkya/pseuds/waferkya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lesson in Pythagorean mathematics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eat Not The Heart

The barricade has grown quiet, silence settling in the street like snow, thick and hoary. Enjolras feels restless, but he forces himself to stay still, breathe in, and out, so very slowly; he touches the back of his fingers to the frame of the window, looking down, thinking nothing. The room seems smaller than it was only a few hours ago; outside, Paris unfolds endlessly in every direction, tiny lights shining in the face of the buildings like stars, and fading into darkness.

Enjolras is not surprised, not really, when behind him a voice that is soft and firm and unslurring says, “Drink with me.”

Enjolras turns around slowly.

Grantaire is standing a mere two feet away — close, always too close and inexplicably so, _why is he here day after day after day, drinking in wine and speeches all the same, loving the poison and not believing one word he hears instead? Why? Why is he here now?_ — his face and his frame barely carved in the long shadows set by the line of dying candles on the walls. He’s not smiling, Enjolras thinks, but he has a bottle of wine in his hand—and he’s holding it out in an offer.

Enjolras considers it, considers him. Grantaire doesn’t repeat himself, and Enjolras drinks — to days gone by, and the world about to dawn, his eyes shut hard, black shattering to splinters of white against his lids —, and then Grantaire is drinking too, and as he does, his lips pressed to the warmer glass where Enjolras’ mouth was, he looks at him.

(As he always does.)

Enjolras is painfully aware of his stare.

(As he always is.)

Enjolras stares back.

(And that is not a first, it is _not_ — then why does it feel like it is?)

They stand, vis a vis. Grantaire’s back is a straight, defiant line, his shoulders square, his hair a mess of curls matted with dust, and that is all he has in common with Enjolras. They stand, opposite in colour and thought and even expression, Grantaire’s mouth slightly curled up at the corners, Enjolras collected and somber even through the warmth that the wine spilled down his throat.

And yet, the same roof sits on top of their heads. ( _Why?_ )

Grantaire sighs, so quietly that Enjolras would’ve missed it, if he wasn’t holding his breath. (Why is he holding his breath? _It must be all the excitement from today._ He cannot wait to see the people rise; Paris cloaked in red, a brave, proud throne for Lady Liberty. _Certainly, that is the reason._ )

Grantaire hasn’t stopped looking at him and he raises the hand that’s still holding the bottle and says, softly, “Right,” — then he raises his other hand and says, “Left.”

Enjolras frowns. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s curious; when Grantaire moves towards the window, Enjolras turns around in time with his steps, never letting him out of his sight.

“Motion,” Grantaire says as he walks, then he stops, clacking his heels together quite histrionically, and says, “Rest.”

Enjolras is still hesitant, so Grantaire points at the room and says, “Finite,” — then he makes a wide, almost reverent gesture, encompassing the black and dark-blue stretch of velvet that is Paris, and declares: “Infinite.”

Enjolras’ eyes go wide. _Of course_. “The Table of Opposites.”

He still can’t see the point of it, but Grantaire bows his head in a pleased little nod.

“Very good,” he says, only Enjolras wasn’t finished.

He puts his fingers to his chest and says, “Straight,” — and he sees Grantaire’s eyes ( _blue, so blue, so, so very blue_ ) light up in amusement as Enjolras points at him and says, not unkindly, “Crooked.”

Grantaire wrinkles his nose, “Your humour puts Plautus to shame, Apollo.”

At that, Enjolras smiles; a real, tight-lipped smile that he knows draws lines around his mouth, softens his gaze. Grantaire looks strangely taken aback, but he’s quick to hide it by raising his arm in a worn out gesture to put the bottle to his mouth.

Enjolras sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

“I understand what you mean,” he says. “Opposites are essential to knowledge. Negative definitions are the first approach to classifying the discernible. Darkness is the absence of light—and both are needed. The people will know our cause is just, because they have known freedom, and are now deprived of it. Once they realize it, they will certainly fight.”

(He doesn’t ask, _And what will you do, Grantaire?_ He doesn’t say, _We are as land and sea — will the tide rise, when the Sun calls?_ He doesn’t say, _I do not know what to expect from you, and it will be the death of me._ )

Grantaire’s face remains blank for a brief moment, and then he’s shaking his head slightly, like that is not what he meant at all. ( _What is it, then? What am I missing — as always?_ )

He doesn’t offer any explanation, but he raises the bottle and says again, “Drink with me.”

Enjolras drinks.

 

( _Of course_ , he thinks, as he’s about to die — Death staring at him with black hollow eyes in the hands of men who are just following orders. _Of course._

Through the stairs Enjolras himself half-smashed, Grantaire stumbles into the room, past the National Guard, and Enjolras wants to scream, _I remembered_. The principles of numbers, the limit and the unlimited — _as two, Grantaire, we’re unbalanced, imperfect,_ he wants to say — but he can’t find his voice, he can’t find — he can’t — and Grantaire looks so _alive_.

Enjolras raises the flag, redder than blood, without a word — but his hand finds Grantaire’s.

They die. As one.

Perfect.)

**Author's Note:**

> The title is the 30th of the Pythagorean ‘symbols’, which are a series of exhortations (I’d say commandments) that Pythagoras passed down to his followers.
> 
> Now excuse me as I go die in a corner overwhelmed with feelings.


End file.
